“What is a poet?”
My guitarist friend asked today
a question which I was about to answer
with that jealous pride
which "influences" all poets
but at the time I could not say

It seems that as he asked
I was stringing another friends old guitar
when my finger strangely found itself impelled
upon one of these rusty strings

My finger turned to stare at me
swearing as it steadily bled
both of us lost in effusive cursing
but then I felt this sudden dread

Asking myself that ubiquitous question
when blood shakes hands with rust
(like a nun who mistakenly stumbles
into some bawdy Bourbon Street bar)

I asked myself
when last I had
that painful tetanus shot
which every white-robed,
square-toed nurse
is sadistically quick to beg,
behind that sinful grin,
praying I say something more
than the number of years in ten

So I am sorry to say
I could not answer
my quizzical musical friend
(who, by now I am sad to say,
was lost in mirthful laughter)
as at the time
I was lost in thought
about two pricks
the one in my finger
and one
in the bitter end

11/15/2009

Posted on 11/15/2009
Copyright © 2026 Tony Whitaker